Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  “Nothing?” His expression—half pleased, half vexed—puzzled her. “Really. Not a hint at where we might find her?”

  She breathed in, out—and felt a crinkling sensation against her chest. She’d tucked the note from the child’s caretaker in France down inside her dress bodice, to make sure she didn’t lose it. “Sadly, no clues at all.”

  “Ah well.” He studied her for a moment then stepped closer. “You must be exhausted, Your Highness. If there’s anything more to find, though I doubt there is as you’ve given the place a good tumble, why not let me give it a try. You should rest.”

  Beatrice bit down on her bottom lip and looked around the room again. She’d searched everywhere, hadn’t she? Surely if anything was worth finding, she’d have come across it by now. “Well, look if you like. Poor Marie, I’m becoming so worried about her. What if she’s out there in the storm even now, injured and helpless?”

  “Then we’ll find her in the morning.” He stepped closer and shook his head in sympathy. “How bad can it possibly be? If she twisted an ankle and can’t walk back to the house, I’m sure she’s smart enough to shelter somewhere until she can be found. A little soggy and cold, but she’ll survive.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Beatrice said, thinking she indeed was tired and would go to her room. She must have been standing much nearer to Gregory than she realized because, when they both turned at the same time, her breast brushed his chest. He reached out and closed a strong hand around her arm, stopping her.

  She looked up at him, not surprised this time but ready to reprimand him for breaching protocol, again. The soft longing in his eyes stopped her. “What is it Gregory?”

  He frowned. “Have you ever wished with all of your heart for something you believed was beyond your reach, Princess?”

  “What?” She laughed. “This is a new side of you. Have you turned poet?”

  “Please, Bea, don’t mock me.”

  He bent still closer, bringing her focus to his mouth, a sensuous mouth. She felt enveloped in his manly scent—the freshness of the outside air, sea salt, horse flesh, leather. Beatrice shut her eyes just long enough to regain her composure and quell the little shiver of arousal.

  “Gregory.” She laughed nervously. “One of us needs to leave this room.”

  “I just want you to know, Your Highness. I will always be your defender, your champion, no matter how you feel about me.” He rushed on before she could interrupt. “But I am only a man. I can’t control the passion that wells up inside of me whenever—”

  “Stop,” she said firmly, suddenly embarrassed. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You saved my life that day in the park. And you’ve done a lot to make my mother happy, because of her attachment to her horses. But—”

  “But you would never accept me as your lover?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Hadn’t she at least once fantasized such a thing? Knowing Henry was lost to her. Despising the idea of living out the rest of her years, a lonely virgin?

  “No,” she said, suddenly sure of herself. If love waited for her, somewhere, sometime, it was with a man other than Gregory MacAlister. Her mind might become muddled at times, but her heart spoke clearly to her. Feeling relieved, and generous in light of her decision, she determined to hurt his feelings no more than was necessary.

  “Dear Gregory.” She removed his fingers from around her arm and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Can we not just be friends?” Hadn’t Louise set her an example, befriending commoners, believing they were every bit as worthy of her friendship as people with titles?

  He gave her a fraction of a smile although no light touched his eyes. “Friends then,” he said stiffly. “Of course, Princess. And you still have my promise of loyalty.”

  “For which I’m grateful.” She lowered her hand from his shoulder. “Now, if you like, continue the search—here and elsewhere in the castle. I shall see if I can get some rest and plan on joining the search party as soon as calmer weather calms makes it safe for us to venture out. In the meantime, if you do find her—”

  “I will send her directly to you,” he promised.

  “Good.” She was halfway through the door to her own chamber when he spoke again.

  “I’m glad you at least trust me.”

  Beatrice cast him a final smile over her shoulder.

  When she’d shut the door behind her, she stood for a moment with her back pressed against the heavy wooden panel. It felt reassuringly solid.

  Odd, she thought, remembering the slip of paper he’d laid on the mantle in the other room. Why did he take the note off the door?

  Beatrice slid the bolt home on the connecting door then did the same to the hallway door. She stepped close to the dying embers of the fire Marie would have prevented from going out during the chill night. Suddenly, she felt terribly cold.

  Gregory looked around the room. Beatrice had torn it to pieces. “Kept,” he muttered. “Kept…kept…kept what, my little French traitor?”

  There was only one thing he could imagine might have given the doomed woman the strength to laugh in his face. The letters. He had instructed her to burn them. What if she hadn’t?

  But if they’d been in this room, and if Beatrice had found them, surely she would have been so angry she’d have said something about them. No, if Marie had indeed stashed them away, either they were somewhere else or they were still hidden here, in this room.

  But every drawer had been emptied. And even the drawers themselves were pulled free and turned upside down, stacked in the corner of the room, as if Beatrice had thought to make sure nothing had been glued to their bottoms. The linens were torn from the bed. The desk emptied out. Chairs tipped over onto their sides. Framed pictures on the walls lifted to the floor. (The princess must have stood on a chair to haul those down. Impressive!)

  In short, everything Beatrice could reach or was movable had been inspected.

  Everything she could move, he thought again.

  His gaze fixed on the immense, oak wardrobe standing against one wall. Although its doors were open, contents spilled out, it must still be too heavy for the princess to shift. But the French witch? He remembered the strength of her grip, moments before he’d shoved her off the ledge. Was it possible?

  Going to it, then bracing one shoulder against a back corner, he eased the thing forward of the wall a few inches. An equally exhausting effort shimmied the other rear corner forward. He was rewarded with the sound of something with a bit of weight hitting the floor. Gregory grinned, knowing before he saw it.

  He got down on his knees and stretched out an arm along the floor, close to the wall. When his hand came back out it held a packet of letters neatly tied up with a red ribbon.

  “Foolish girl,” he breathed. To think she believed he wouldn’t find them.

  Now that he had these, nothing remained to tie him to her death. Or to Willy’s mischief. All he had to do was burn the letters. And woo a naïve princess. If necessary, he’d force the issue, though cleverly of course. The woman was so pitifully inexperienced, she likely wouldn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late.

  42

  “Go to bed, Henry.” Louise touched his arm, flashing him a sympathetic look when he glanced up drowsily at her. He felt so very helpless. Where was Beatrice at this very moment? Was she safe? Had she heeded Louise’s warning in her letter?

  When he’d asked Louise if she thought her cautionary words would be enough to keep Beatrice safe, the Duchess of Argyll had said only, “If Bea’s in the mood to listen.” Not terribly reassuring.

  “I can’t sleep,” Henry said now. “I’ve tried.”

  Outside, the wind slammed anything it could rip free from trees or buildings against the inn’s outer walls. Every now and then the innkeeper, looking as exhausted as Henry felt, shuffled through the room, checking the shutters, staring mournfully at the ceiling, which had begun leaking hours ear
lier. “Thatching’s likely blown off,” the man had muttered.

  Two more men caught in the storm arrived and unceremoniously curled up in opposite corners of the fireplace wall, and fell asleep.

  “Nothing to be done until the squall blows itself out,” Stephen Byrne said. “We should all get some rest.”

  “How can you sleep through this noise?” Henry held his aching head. “And knowing poor Bea is trapped on the island with that monster.”

  “We can’t be certain he’s done anything worse than flirt with the woman you love,” Louise said, managing to actually look a little amused at his pain. “Every young woman deserves to have at least two gentlemen fighting over her, once in her life.”

  Henry lifted his head to roll his eyes at her. “You can’t call the Scot a gentleman, if he’s made improper advances toward your sister. Never mind that he’s murdered his fiancée. ”

  “No,” she said, looking grimmer. “No, I wouldn’t do him the honor if what Stephen has discovered is true.” She sighed. “I admit that it looks bad for the fellow, even if all we have is hearsay…not a shred of proof.”

  Henry slammed his fists down on the tabletop. “You would defend the bastard?”

  “I suggest you not take that tone with Her Royal Highness,” a deep voice came at him from behind. He’d forgotten Stephen Byrne had remained in the room, hunkered down on a settee near the inn’s door. Their unofficial sentry.

  Henry turned to see the American, now looming over him, wearing an expression he’d only ever seen on a man in combat. Dangerous. Deadly.

  Henry drew a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.” He turned back to Louise. “I apologize, ma’am. Truly, I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m just so terrified he’ll hurt her, as he may have done that woman in Scotland.”

  “If what we suspect is true,” Louise said, her voice gentle but threaded with determination, “I don’t want him anywhere near my sister either. But until this storm passes the coast, there’s little we can do.”

  “Yes, of course.” No matter how hard Henry tried to control is anxiety, his heart refused to stop racing.

  They all three sat up with coffee until Louise seemed unable to keep her eyes open despite the hot drink. She leaned against Byrne on the oak settee, and he coiled a strong arm around her and pulled her into his chest. When the innkeeper passed through the next time and gave him a look, Byrne merely met the man’s reproving eyes, and the man scampered away as if the American had pointed a gun at him.

  Henry couldn’t have said what time it was when he too fell unconscious. The next thing he knew a strong hand was gripping his shoulder, shaking him. “It’s time, Henry. We’re away.”

  He blinked his eyes open and stared up into The Raven’s face. “What?” He looked around. The two most recent travelers had gone. Only then did his brain get the message: Silence.

  “The wind has stopped,” Henry said.

  “Right, but it’s still raining. I don’t know if a ferry will run in this. We might find a captain from the fishing fleet willing to take us to the island. It will be dawn soon. We should get down to the docks.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Henry staggered to his feet. “How will we—”

  “Louise has arranged to borrow the innkeeper’s cart and horse, and a tarpaulin to keep us as dry as possible. I’ll drive,” Byrne said.

  With little in the way of luggage they were away within minutes. Exposed to the elements, they were shivering in ten minutes, for the tarp did nothing to keep sudden spits of rain from blowing in beneath it. Henry’s skin felt clammy, his overcoat sodden, but he didn’t complain. All that mattered was reaching Beatrice and seeing her safe.

  “Do you know how far it is to the docks?” Henry asked Byrne.

  “They say three miles due south.”

  “So if a wheel doesn’t get mired in this muck they call a road, maybe an hour?”

  “More likely two. We can’t move very fast in this.”

  Louise let out a hopeful little cry. “Oh, my, look!”

  “What is it?” Byrne asked.

  “The sky,” she said. “Do you see, to the south? Doesn’t it seem to be clearing?”

  “By God, it does,” Henry cried. “Maybe by the time we reach the water, we’ll have a blue sky overhead.”

  Byrne nodded. “And less wind. Bad for a sailing barge, but better if we can find a steamer.”

  No one seemed to be around the town wharf when they first arrived. Finally, they located three fishermen at a pub two streets away from the water. One told them that a couple of the larger boats had already gone out. “I’m givin’ it a coupla more hours. Still pretty rough out there.”

  “Too rough to cross the Solent for the price of three days’ catch?” Byrne asked.

  The man looked interested but only pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “A week’s catch,” Henry upped the ante.

  The man smiled. “Give me an hour to make her ready.”

  “How long to reach the queen’s house, once we reach the island?” “Relax,” the fisherman chuckled, “I’ll have you folks there for luncheon with Her Majesty.”

  43

  “I don’t care who else is looking for Marie,” Beatrice said, letting the heavy velvet draperies fall away from her fingers. “I’m going out too.”

  The sky over the Isle of Wight was clearing. Already she could see tattered patches of silky indigo blue, and the wind had dropped to a breeze that hardly moved the leaves in the trees outside the salon’s tall windows. Safety seemed no longer an issue.

  “Why do you insist upon trudging through muck and mire, Baby?” Victoria shook her head in exasperation as Beatrice turned toward the hallway door. “The island will be a horrid mess of puddles and downed tree limbs after the storm. Let the men handle the search.”

  “We need as many people looking for Marie as possible,” Beatrice said.

  “You don’t intend to go out alone, do you?”

  “No.” Exasperated, she turned to face the queen, her hand on the gilded door latch. “I suppose I’ll ask one or more of our men to accompany me. On horseback. We’ll cover ground more quickly that way.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. “You’ll feel quite foolish when you discover the girl has simply run off with a villager.”

  “That’s not like Marie at all, and you know it, Mama.”

  “I wouldn’t have said so before yesterday, but given the suddenness of her disappearance, it seems the most logical explanation.” She sniffed into her handkerchief. “The French are flighty and prone to unrealistic passions.”

  It was, of course, a distant possibility. A young woman as attractive as Marie should have had a flock of admirers. But now Beatrice knew the reason why her friend had kept to herself. The child. And probably the pain of a broken heart following her affair with the priest. Had she expected her lover to leave the Church for her? Had he forced her to abandon her homeland and seek asylum in England, to protect his honor? There were so many questions she longed to ask Marie. And she would…if only she could find her.

  Beatrice rushed out of the salon and up the stairs. She’d need serious riding gear.

  She ran into Ponsonby on her way to her room. “Will you send word to the stables that I require two men to accompany me on the search?” She flung the words at the old man as she raced past on the curving stairway. “Have them stand ready with the horses. I’ll be down in the yard in ten minutes.”

  From the stiffening of Ponsonby’s shoulders in his black frock coat, she sensed another lecture coming on. “Princess, is it wise to—”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” she snapped.

  Determined to get to the bottom of her lady’s mysterious absence, she excused herself for her burst of temper and concentrated on speedily casting aside dress and petticoats for leather and wool that would stand up to a rough and sloppy ride.

  Outside in the mews, she checked the sky again. The
shroud of black clouds that had covered the island for forty-eight hours had lifted, and the sun shone brightly. Her mother was right though. Puddles everywhere. Impromptu streams of fast-running water crisscrossed the property, and flotsam and jetsam lay all about. The fields would be treacherous with mud, some trails through the woods impassible. It would make more sense to put off the search, her search at least, until the next day when the earth had soaked up at least some of the moisture. But Beatrice couldn’t abide the possibility of Marie lying on damp ground somewhere, helpless and cold, unable to walk on a twisted ankle, or unconscious.

  She rounded the corner of the stables and found Gregory already mounted, holding the reins to her horse. Attached to his saddle were a leather satchel and a rolled blanket. Medical supplies, she assumed.

  She looked around. “Where is our other man?”

  “Those who can be spared have already left.” Busy adjusting his stirrups, he didn’t look at her. “We’ll catch up with them soon enough.”

  Feeling only a little uneasy striking out alone with the ardent Mr. MacAlister, she sighed. Surely he’d behave himself under the circumstances. “Fine. It’s probably best we spread out anyway. Which way did they go?”

  He hesitated, as if trying to remember. “Half of them toward the cliffs. They’ll take the high road along the shore.”

  “And how many are off toward East Cowes?”

  “Four. And three more took the bridle path through the fields. We can cover the woods.” “Isn’t it less likely Marie would have ventured into the forest during a storm—being that’s away from the house instead of toward it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “If she was already out walking there, she might have imagined it wiser to seek shelter where she was, rather than try to cross open fields, exposed to the worst of the wind.”